


Pockets Full of Stones

by marchionessofblackadder



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-11-13 07:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchionessofblackadder/pseuds/marchionessofblackadder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After her banishment from the Dark Castle, with few options to choose from, Belle decides to see the wonders of the world for herself. Unfortunately, life is made up of difficult choices. With little means to her name, Belle soon finds herself crossed into another deal, far crueler than her first, and learns that no price is too high for a poor unfortunate soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gently as She Goes

**Author's Note:**

> This idea is a long time coming. It was developed back in April with Valoscope, and she has helped me nurture it ever since. So this entirely is dedicated to her. Thank you so much dearie for all your encouragement and support.
> 
> A special thank you to Accio, who has been a huge supporter in this from the beginning, as well, and who has prompted me over thirty times for this one story. If that's not dedication, I don't know what is. Thank you, dearie.

Standing on the edge of the forest path, Belle saw the dwarf off, giving Dreamy words of encouragement and bravery to find his True Love and to follow his heart. She smiled until he was out of sight, lost under cover of the misty woods’ darkness. It was only until then that she let her smile fall, her aching cheeks sliding like drops in the ocean. Surrounded by the frothy green of the enchanted woods, Belle knew that every direction she looked in, whether it was spurring forward, retreating, or even going off the path, was wrong. She knew she was deciding her fate with each step she took, but no matter where she went she knew it was not where she wanted to go or where she needed to be.  
  
Belle had been at the little inn for three days, and she grew more heart sick with every passing hour. Why had she let herself fall into such a disillusion that this, being on her own and seeing the bottom of an ale mug every night was fulfilling? She knew what she wanted, yet every choice she made took her farther away from it. She knew what she wanted because she dreamed of it every night, and it always started the same, like sparks behind her eyes and at her fingertips, the first time she’d truly ever felt magic. It had been the moment she’d held his face in her hands, marveling at the simmer of his scales melting away and revealing the tawny skin beneath, lined with age and honesty. His eyes, for just a moment, had been brown and deep and warm like the earth.  
  
Whether it was her heart trying to protect herself, or perhaps her mind, Belle didn’t know, but her dream never surpassed that moment of stunned confusion in the wake of the sleepy dream of True Love’s kiss. Her dream never entered the nightmare, the snarling and the shaking and the fury. No, she would awake and think of that on her own in those dark, sleepless hours until she could drift off again before dawn.  
  
That’s what awaited her beyond the inn’s meager door, and Belle didn’t feel any pressing desire to meet it. Instead of sitting in that smoke filled, ale soaked room until she began to drift, Belle turned into the forest and walked. Her cloak pinned at her neck, the slight chill was more refreshing than bothersome, and it helped clear her mind of the uncomfortably warm thoughts that paraded through the edge of her mind like a paper lantern show. The feelings that came with those memories, the nervous excitement, the gentle desire, the swell of something all-consuming and so pure it physically hurt, filling up her chest with emotions she’d always wondered after but never had.  
  
Afterward, she wondered if she’d ever have it again. She certainly didn’t want it, not unless it was with the same person. Belle was brave, but she wasn’t brave enough to search for what she’d had with Rumpelstiltskin in someone else. She feared too much of the possibility of finding something too close to it, and all she wanted was him.   
  
Before she knew it, she was traipsing down the same path that had brought her to the inn, the one she’d walked three days prior on her journey from the Dark Castle. The inn was situated deep within the enchanted forest, just near the crossroads that led east, from whence Belle had come, Rumpelstiltskin’s lands in the snow capped mountains past the grasslands, and then southwest to Dorstonis. Belle had seen travelers take that path, and it held no small allure for her, thoughts of a sunset horizon bathed in gold, jeweled sandals, thick accents, spiced wine, and a harbor full of ships, many rumored to come from as far as Agraba.   
  
The thought of going somewhere west where no one knew her name had an appeal. Somewhere dry and warm, where the air was spicy and sharp sounded invigorating. It would be a nice change from the richness and verdancy of the north, the cold and wet of the enchanted woods where rivers and lakes met her reflection, of Avonlea’s scars and Rumpelstiltskin’s quiet mountains. Thinking on what she had learned to accept was her home made her feel hollow, her skin prickly and her heart as fragile as glass. She had no idea where she was going truly, but sitting still or trying to sleep wasn’t an option. Her mind was too muddled with emotion, and her heart was too heavy with it.  
  
Belle knew she had a problem on her hands, many in fact. A woman on a journey alone, that was problematic other than the fact she had not much to offer up in the way of the world as far as skill or coin. She had at first accepted the fate of returning to her father, to return to her station as daughter and lady, but the thought of having maids and servants tend to her whims, the very ones she’d learned to do on her own and for her own master made her uncomfortable. She doubted she would ever truly be able to sit comfortably and allow someone else to clean her chamber pot, press her clothing, or make her meals without giving something back in the way of skill or labor. And what would she be returning to? She knew she would not be allowed to stay to herself, that her father would seek out a match for her hand. Belle wondered if it was a selfish thought, not returning because she knew her father could find her a man to marry that would help their lands, gaining them power and wealth. She had dealt herself into Rumpelstiltskin’s hands, hadn’t she? Surely she could do the same with another man, a man perhaps tamer, without magic and rooted evil beyond her years.  
  
The notion of giving herself to anyone she didn’t love, though, turned her stomach, and Belle put the matter to bed with the strict decision she would not allow that to come to pass.  
  
As Belle stepped off the path and onto the thick black soil, rich beneath her slippers, a more pressing thought presented itself. She wasn’t even sure if she  could  go home. After her months of living with Rumpelstiltskin, she had come to know a bit about magical deals and how specific the parameters could be. She couldn’t be sure that if she returned to her kingdom, did that mean her binding deal with Rumpelstiltskin was broken? Belle entertained the idea about asking at pubs, markets, and fairs in the villages and hamlets she would pass through whether or not news of Avonlea’s state had settled or perhaps bettered in her absence. The thought of the ogres returning to Avonlea because of a decision Belle had gone back on filled her with sickness, and while she loved Rumpelstiltskin with all her heart, she couldn’t put it past him to not be so spiteful.  
  
Though, he had been the one to send her away. Perhaps, then, their deal wasn’t broken but dissolved. She had promised forever, just as he had. There had been no certain clauses, no specific guidelines or exceptions.  
  
No, best not leave it to chance. Not with Rumpelstiltskin.  
  
The Dark One had showed her one contract he’d been drafting once, remembering the way his haggard claws caressed the dry parchment so saintly. His smile had tightened over the course of composing the document, his golden-green scales twinkling by the candlelight, and Belle had felt the magic as she read the words over his shoulder that would raise up a lowly guttersnipe to a princess, twisting like growing tethers of rope. Belle had no doubt it would serve as an appropriate noose.   
  
“Each deal is structured for the receiver, dearie,” he’d told her, his dark gaze flickering at her over his half-moon spectacles. “Just as a spell or a curse. Word choice is, above all things, essential.”  
  
Belle had leaned over his shoulder, placing her hand upon his shoulder, a smile playing at her lips, “Don’t you mean ‘victim’?”  
  
Rumpelstiltskin had turned his head just enough to grace her with his profile before he replied with a slight lisp, “That all depends on whether or not she accepts and signs, doesn’t it, dearie.”  
  
“Indeed, given she reads the damned thing.”  
  
The housekeeper had pulled away then, her broom in hand serving as reminder to continue sweeping the dusty turret that smelled so heavy of herbs and potions that Belle could taste it on the back of her tongue, but not before she could miss the little tug at Rumpelstiltskin’s lips or hear the deep and satisfied chuckle. A frivolous memory, now that Belle thought on it, but one that filled her with warmth on that cool, wet night, and slowly the little moments began to bleed together, something she couldn’t seem to stop. All the gentle touches and uncertain glances, flickering gazes and bitten lips, she took each one that she could recall and began to string them like pearls along the edges of her mind, a barrier against what she knew and what she hoped for. That thread between pleasure and pain was so desperately thin, but she knew she had to sort through each memory and every feeling, lest she lose a single one.  
  
Her walk took her deeper into the woods, the great oaks and frothy green underbrush tickling her ankles. Her cloak disturbed the overgrowth and sent showers of rain droplets across her slippers. Belle breathed in the lushness. She knew she shouldn’t stray so far from the inn, or the road for that matter, but the farther she walked, the freer she felt and the quieter her mind became until all was calm within her again.  
  
The wind singing in the trees was cool on her face, but the absence of the sound of life gave Belle pause. She couldn’t hear the birds, the crickets, or the scurry of rabbits. They’d been common enough on her walk across the countryside, but the utter stillness of the nature around her was striking after spending so much time submerged in it. She couldn’t even hear the music, the drunken ruckus that the inn quelled with every night. As Belle strained her ears, she almost didn’t catch the faint sound of voices dancing across the breeze like wind chimes.   
  
Curiosity piqued, Belle crept through the woods, the voices slowly growing louder so she could hear the words. It was singing, and the words were like a thread pulling her forward, “ _Lips, ripe as the berries in June, red the rose, red the rose, skin, pale as the light of the moon, gently as she goes_...”  
  
The rustle of the tree branches and the tinkling of water became the accompaniment of the song, and Belle’s own feet struck the beat that brought her close enough to hear the rushing of a river that swept through a mead blooming with violets. She wandered closer, staying near to the shadows of the forest as she peered around the trunk of a large oak. What she saw caught her breath, and she dug her nails into the rough bark of the tree.  
  
Mermaids.  
  
Belle’s memory flitted and flashed, dark and heated from the southern sun of a baby with gills behind its ears and hair kissed by fire, bare skinned sirens with hooded gazes, and a kiss that she wished she could forget that made her blush to the tips of her hair. Her meek experience with the infamous mythical race gave her pause enough to remember caution and fear, but these beings were different from Belle’s previous encounter.  
  
There were three maids in a scattered row, each strikingly different, perched upon the rocks of the river. One, with skin as pale green as a peridot that glimmered under the moonlight, lounged languidly between two rocks like she was resting in a hammock. Her long, deep purple tail had strange ridges and ripples that Belle could not quite make out, and her short black hair hid her face well but for her downturned mouth painted as dark a red as cherries. She appeared to be asleep, but the other two most certainly weren’t. The second sat higher than the other two, the rich amber of her scales setting off the caramel of her skin and the cinnamon color of her thick mass of hair that hung over her shoulders and down her back. She had, strangely, a long bow across her lap, and she was plucking the string like tuning an instrument.  
  
The third was a small a wisp of a creature, as fresh and bright as a summer flower, her soft pink ruffled tail swishing water beneath her perch. She held a comb and drew it through her blonde hair, which looked near liquid silver under the moon, and a glass in hand, gazing as if singing to it. She _ glowed_. She wore a sheer wrap that draped across her bosoms threaded with what looked like moonbeams. She was luminous, lustrous, yet so sad that Belle could not think her fair.  
  
Yet she sang with the unearthly voice of a siren, and Belle stared in open mouthed wonder when the other two mermaids joined softly in a beautiful harmony with the littlest. Belle was enraptured, but not without thinking to grip tighter to the tree, letting the bark bite under her nails at the quick. The pain was kept her mind present from under the magic they were casting.   
  
For they sang to _ her_, and she could almost imagine their eyes slowly sliding up to her hiding place. The soulful depth of their words were an older magic, not needing the aid of a glass wand or the talented scratch of a quill to parchment. It was a silver magic, a silver call. Simply with their own devices, they cast their spell with music, “ _Eyes, blue as the sea and the sky, water flows, water flows; heart running like fire in the night, gently as she goes_...”  
  
They began a wordless cadence, and Belle narrowed her gaze, watching the water as it brightened, rushing faster, sparkling like diamonds. The mist kissed her cheeks and tasted sweet on her lips with just a hint of salt in the air. Belle rolled her tongue over the taste, her eyes fluttering closed under the light tones of the mermaids and the way nature bent and swayed to their voices. All the singers and all the harpists in Avonlea could not have produced a sweeter sound.  
  
“Seraphina, I think your song has caught a lure.”  
  
The deep voice was low, like a quiet thunder beneath the earth, and it pulled Belle out from under the heavy fog of magic. When she opened her eyes, she was standing not two feet from the riverbed. Belle couldn’t remember having moved from under the cover of the forest. In fact, she didn’t remember moving at all.   
  
And all three mermaids were gazing at her.  
  
“What brings you out here, mistress?” the littlest asked, her voice just as sweet as when she’d sang.  
  
Belle hesitated, remembering Rumpelstiltskin’s warning on the matter of merfolk. The thought of her former master and almost-lover brought her memories tight against the barrier of her mind like twisting a necklace of pearls about her throat. It helped clear the remainder of the magic that clung to her, and she replied, “I was walking when I heard your song. Forgive me for the intrusion.”   
  
The green skinned nymph smiled, her thick black hair curling over the side of her face as she sat up from her lounge of rock. “Quite a bit far from home aren’t you, northerner?”  
  
Blushing, Belle took a half step back. She knew her accent gave her away anywhere she went. The frontlands had a bit of a richer tone to their voices.   
  
Seraphina, the little blonde, tilted her head to the side. Up closer, Belle felt an urge to avert her eyes. The girl was young, and she had a traditional beauty. Blameless skin, wide blue eyes, plump lips, like the porcelain dolls the toy makers of Avonlea’s villages would send her as a child. “Are you a northern lady, mistress?” she asked so sweetly, smiling with wide but straight teeth. She set her comb in her lap, holding her looking glass with both hands.  
  
“I- I am,” Belle looked down, knowing she should turn and leave. “Have you been in the north?”  
  
“As far as the ice waters,” the littlest said with a slight smile. “We see much.”  
  
“All,” her green sister added.  
  
Belle hesitated, clasping her hands together to keep from fidgeting. “Have you... heard of Avonlea?”  
  
The three mermaids shared a glance between them before the eldest replied, “We haven’t traveled to the frontlands in some time. They were at war; the water was poisoned.”  
  
Well, that had certainly been true. Her curiosity was burning now, and as long as she dug her heels a little bit harder into the ground, perhaps she could just observe a bit longer. “I didn’t know... I didn’t know mermaids could travel up river. Or in freshwater.”  
  
All three mermaids snickered, squirming in their seats like schoolgirls. The maid with the bow leaned forward on her seat, watching Belle with golden eyes. She was exotic, her amber and gold striped tail lined with sheer frills, reminding Belle of a lionfish. She rested her elbows on her knees (or at least where Belle thought her knees would be), but stayed perched above her sisters.  
  
Belle cautiously kept her eye on the bow.  
  
“It is a bit uncomfortable after a while,” the littlest admitted. “After all, whatever walkers put into the water, we breathe it in.”  
  
“‘Walkers’?” asked Belle.  
  
“Yourself, mistress,” the girl said not unkindly. “Those with legs on land.”  
  
“You mean humans.”  
  
The golden scaled mermaid snorted in derision, and she’d been so quiet up until that point that she startled Belle, “You mortals are thick,” she clucked, her voice warm, her words broken as if she knew little of the language she spoke. “You think that humankind are the only walkers on land? Foolish child.”  
  
“Yes, there’s quite a few beasts that stalk the woods,” the green skinned beauty spoke, glancing up at her sister. The two shared a look that spoke volumes while the littlest gazed into her looking glass resolutely, her plump lips pressed in a firm line as if having a disagreement with herself over her own beauty.   
  
The green skinned mermaid broke her gaze and leaned her elbow against one of the rocks. “What is your name, child?”   
  
She thought for a fleeting moment of giving them a pseudonym. It had proved useful in the hamlets she’d passed through, disguising herself under different aliases. People welcomed her with carelessness and ignorance, another weary traveler to spend a few words with. Not the cast off caretaker of the Dark One, the renowned Lady Belle who had saved her village and family from the ogres.   
  
And she knew, above all, that names had power.   
  
But not having a name had power, too. Had she known who the woman in the forest all those days ago had been, she would have stayed away, hidden even as the carriage passed her. Not knowing a name could get one into trouble just as easily. They already knew from whence she came. It was just as well that they were mermaids. She doubted they would be traversing across the kingdoms spilling her secrets.  
  
“Belle,” she answered honestly, and at the last minute gave a bit of a curtsey. Merfolk, she’d read, were vain things but also of the old blood. Protocol, politeness, and diplomacy were called for in most cases, and she didn’t want to irritate this race. Of that she was certain.  
  
The violet tailed temptress watched Belle, and when she curtsied her lips twitched in a bit of a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She inclined her head and replied, “I am Kyme. My sisters, Seraphina,” she glanced at the littlest who was busy tucking her hair behind her ears. “And Chryseis.”  
  
Seraphina lay her looking glass aside and slipped into the water. Belle watched as her hair and scales glittered under the surface before she rose out near the riverbed at Belle’s feet. She crossed her arms, resting her chin upon her elbows to gaze up at the human. “Why are you so far from home?”  
  
Belle crouched down so she and the mermaid were almost at eye level, bringing her cloak around her body closer. Her gaze fell down to the silver white tips of her shoes in the dirt. “It’s a bit of a long story.”  
  
“Oh, I love stories,” the girl-child said, her eyes bright at the prospect. “Won’t you tell me, please?”  
  
“I’m afraid that it’s not a happy one.”  
  
“That’s all right, I’d still like to hear it,” Seraphina beamed, her tail fins flipping behind her, splashing gaily.  
  
Chryseis rolled her eyes and tossed her hair, resting her cheek on her fist, reprimanding her little sister, “It is the telling that hurts, sweet.”   
  
“Broken spirits are common enough,” Kyme allowed, her eyes never leaving Belle.  
  
Belle smiled sadly in return, meeting her eyes over the littlest mermaid's head. “And broken hearts?”  
  
“Even more so.”  
  
Seraphina leaned up, a conspiratorial gleam in her eye. “You could come with us.”  
  
Belle froze, staring down at the young little mermaid. The longer she held her gaze, the sweeter the girl’s face appeared, youthful and vibrant. For a moment, there was nothing more Belle would rather do than take the mermaid’s hand and let her lead her into the water. There were mysteries, adventures, legends all waiting to be discovered, things Belle could only ever dream of.  
  
“Perhaps not this night,” Kyme said cautiously, and when Belle lifted her eyes to the other two maids, they were sliding down the rocks to splash into the crystal river water. “It is, after all, a journey not easily made,” the green skinned beauty paused, watching the mermaid called Chryseis disappear beneath the surface before she waded closer to Seraphina and Belle, who was startled by the other mermaid. She was larger than Belle had first realized, a full hour glass shape and, were she human, probably two heads taller than Belle.  
  
“Take this,” Seraphina said with a bright smile, offering the silver looking glass up to Belle with a trembling hand. As Belle took the lovely mirror, Seraphina added, “There is a place for you with us if you find yourself without one on land.”  
  
Belle startled, almost dropping the mirror at the words. Before she could properly reply, the young mermaid dipped below the water and swam away with the current, a streak of rose and moonlight beneath the surface, leaving Belle alone with the one called Kyme. The eldest looked up at Belle, a smirk playing about her lips when Belle asked, “Why... why would she offer me such a thing?”  
  
“Seraphina is a youngling,” Kyme wrinkled her nose unpleasantly, her voice dripping with disdain. “Too saccharine for my taste, and greener than a newborn lamb. She knows little and understands even less.”  
  
“Oh,” Belle whispered, looking down at the mirror before offering it to Kyme. “Then you should take this.”  
  
“No, the gift is for you,” Kyme’s eyes flashed sadly for a moment under the fall of her dark hair and she floated back. “There’s a binding to gifting magic. Mustn’t tamper, you see,” hesitating, the mermaid tilted her head, “I urge you, child, to heed this advice, though: don’t doubt your bearings, and don’t throw them away because your spirit is broken. There’s a reason the mind sits atop the heart. Listen to it.”   
  
Belle swallowed thickly, slowly pushing herself to stand. Her leg muscles cramped against the strain of crouching for so long, but she cradled the mirror close and nodded in understanding. The mermaid nodded once in return before diving below and following the current after her sisters, leaving Belle alone with only the mirror and the memory of their song.


	2. Seafaring Peoples

When Belle returned to her room at the inn, she felt chilled to the bone. The mist from the river and the cool night air left her feeling as though she’d never feel warm again, so she made quick to undress and into her woolen stockings and the heaviest nightgown she had (the only one she had). She wrapped the quilt from the bed about her and climbed into the chair near the fire, grateful to see the innkeeper had been maintaining it what she was sure was out of pure kindness.  
  
Drawing her knees up to her chest beneath the quilt, Belle hugged her legs and rested her head, watching the flames dance and kiss in the hearth. By nature, Belle was thoughtful of the littlest detail, but now as she sat before the fire, fatigued beyond the hope of sleep with the world on her shoulders, she let her mind wander aimlessly until it was empty, simply a space with nothing to fill it. It was surprisingly uplifting to be able to let go for a while, enjoying the thaw of her toes and arms against the heat of the fire. There was no one expecting her, no one waiting on her to finish a task or chore, no one waiting for an answer or word.  
  
For the first time, she was completely unto her own.  
  
Belle’s gaze fell to the little silver hand mirror laying on the end table beside the bed, the candle light gleaming off the backing. To think she had not been on her own mere days, and she’d already seen such wonders as mermaids! The littlest had been endearing, but Belle still questioned whether or not she had been genuine in her convictions. What had she meant by it, that Belle could “join” them? Perhaps there was an enchantment that let humans coexist with mermaids? The idea alone was enough to send Belle adrift in daydreams of seeing the ocean, a wonder of the world she hadn’t yet glimpsed with her own eyes.  
  
Such daydreams lent her to sleep, the siren’s song lulling her dreams of moonlight and magic. When she awoke the next morning to find her feet cold, back and neck aching, and her fire burned out with the morning light streaming through the window panes, the night before seemed like a dream itself rather than a memory. As she moved about the small room, Belle felt quite wrong in herself, upset for no reason she could understand.  
  
She ran her brush through her hair, glancing into the wicker basket she’d taken with her from the Dark Castle. It had been used to carry straw back from town, but she was confident that Rumpelstiltskin could conjure bushels of straw at his feet should he wish it. She’d taken nothing else that had not belonged to her, and in the way of the world she was quite diminished on gold. She’d taken the few belongings Rumpelstiltskin had given her-a nightgown, some stockings, a brush, needle and thread, and a small leather pouch of gold that was all but spent. He’d given the last to her on her first trip to town in case she needed anything for herself. Of course he’d given her too much, and when she’d tried to give some of it back he’d waved his hand and disappeared without so much as a puff of smoke.  
  
Three days at the inn had spent up most of what she’d had, and Belle knew she’d be forced out onto the road sooner rather than later. Pinning back her hair after brushing her teeth and cleansing her hands and face, Belle gathered her few belongings and folded the quilt, making sure to leave the room as tidy as she’d come to it, and fastened her cloak around her shoulders. Just as she reached for the door, the gleam of the silver mirror caught her eye, and she paused.  
  
Rumpelstiltskin had not kept mirrors in the Dark Castle unless they were covered. It had been odd to not see her reflection clearly for so long that she’d quite startled when she’d uncovered the mirror in the corner of the great hall. He hadn’t told her why they’d been draped, not directly, but his hesitation in her theory of the spite of his own ugliness was answer enough. Yet the way he’d snarled at his own reflection that last night...  
  
Belle shook her head and grabbed the mirror, tucking it away into the basket and set off, putting the inn behind her. She didn’t know where she was going until she was already half way up the forest path and could see the road sign pointing south. It followed the same direction the river flowed, and when she saw the marker for Dorstonis, her shoulders felt lighter than they had in days. The trip itself took another two and a half day's’ journey with Belle sleeping off the sides of roads in the underbrush (involving an unfortunate role in an ant pile), begging a ride on a turnip cart, and using the last of her gold in a village market to buy two apples, a wedge of cheese, a small, hard loaf of bread, and a skin of watered wine. The bread kept her full and the wine kept her warm, but by the time she reached the port city, she was bereft of any sustenance, monetary or otherwise.  
  
However, that was the last thing on Belle’s mind when the little horse cart crested the hill to reveal the ocean to her for the first time.  
  
The gasp escaped her before she could catch her mouth with her hand, and the old man driving glanced at her in surprise before his weather worn face melted into a kindly smile. “Aye, a fair thing she is.”  
  
And Dorstonis was fair. A massive harbor cradled between rocky cliffs that held its place between the salt water and wheat fields, the city was an array of sprawling lights and ships against a beautiful sunset. Belle could already feel the change in the weather, a dry heat against the brine of the air, yet the breeze that blew in from the coast was balmy and cool.  
  
“I’ve never seen the ocean before,” Belle whispered, and the sudden ache in her throat and the sting of her eyes betrayed her. The water was a grand, living force in shades of gold and green and blue, overpowering yet waiting patiently. “It’s breathtaking.”  
  
The old man let her off in the market just as vendors opened up their wares for the evening, but apart from the exotic environment, Belle was more intrigued by the people. Diversity seemed to flourish in the busy port, and Belle was fascinated by the different men and women alike. Skin the colors of coffee and honey and caramel, children with braids that brushed their knees, all with voices accented in deep timbers or high, melodious tones. Such was the way of seafaring peoples, and Belle was enthralled.  
  
And for the first time in her life, Belle glimpsed a woman wearing pants, and the knight’s daughter’s mouth dropped open at the sight. The woman was tall and slender with an hourglass shape. The silk she wore billowed with every sway of her hips, crystal blue and sheer enough to glimpse fine legs beneath. She wore barely anything else, save for a slip that gave her some modesty across her chest, but her skin, a rich nutmeg, tanned from the sun, glimmered under the torchlights of the market as she passed Belle in jeweled sandals and golden hoops in her ears. Belle felt flushed and thrilled, and hardly noticed when her hood fell back from her hair.  
  
The scent of food hit her like nothing else, and the air was filled with sizzling peppers, invigorating fruits, heady summer wines, and honeyed pastries. Her poor empty stomach knotted in pain, and her mouth watered as her senses were overwhelmed. Without money, though, she knew she would not be eating that night, nor would she be sleeping indoors. She continued on, hurrying past the food vendors quickly to try to escape the tantalizing aromas. The market stretched the length of the harbor, a vast array of goods and treasures being sold- rich silks dyed the color of jewels and precious metals, exotic birds and animals Belle had never seen or heard of before, flowers and herbs, books and tomes and scrolls and maps, ivory, jade, and pearls. She nearly stumbled into a little girl pushing an oyster cart, the lights of the pubs reflecting the green lips of the dark shells.  
  
With a growing frustration at the feeling of helplessness, Belle simply took stock of one of the nearest booths and made her way over. The hulking man within, who looked more near a blacksmith than a merchant, appeared to sell an odd variety of things from silverware to luxurious tapestries. When Belle approached, he gave her a wide smile and leaned on his forearms. With a booming voice that nearly had her teeth chattering, he asked in a thick accent, “Welcome mistress! How may I serve you?”  
  
“I was... I was wondering...” Belle paused, looking down into her basket. She had little in the way of things to sell, and standing out in the crowded port being chaotically buffeted back and forth by warm bodies, it was hard to think. A sudden wave of uncertainty washed over her, and Belle felt foolish. She looked up, shaking her head and trying to smile without feeling it, “Nevermind- I apologize.”  
  
“That-” the man reached out, his fingers plucking Belle’s shoulder and making her gasp, “is a lovely cloak.”  
  
Belle glanced down at the blue and green brocade that matched her dress so perfectly, as well as her eyes. Funny, she had never truly thought about that- Rumpelstiltskin had gifted both dress and cloak to her shortly after her arrival to the Dark Castle, and she had found them fine and lovely but comfortable and modest as well. There was nothing truly extraordinary in the embroidery, but the fabric was rich and the craftsmanship masterly. The blue and green wove together, reminiscent of the forests back home, and Belle wondered why he’d chosen those colors. Her heart pained when she belatedly realized that she would never know.  
  
“Thank you,” she answered meekly, rolling her shoulder away from the man’s dancing fingers. “It was a gift.”  
  
“As pretty a piece for a pretty thing,” the merchant said with an oily smile, inclining his head. “Though ill thought, not suited for this climate.”  
  
“I’m from the north,” Belle protested weakly, her fingers curling around the basket’s handle in a lame defense. The gift had been more than thoughtful, it had been endearing. It had been all she needed against snow, sleet, and rain to keep her warm, a magical thing. “I didn’t know I wouldn’t need it, you see.”  
  
The merchant let out a low whistle, his fingers stroking his mustache. “Well, mistress, I would be glad to buy it off your hands.”  
  
Belle blanched, clutching the hem in one hand, her mouth falling open, “Most certainly not!”  
  
The merchant blinked, then shrugged his massive shoulders easily. “No need to snap, just offering my services, you see.”  
  
Watching the man busy himself with the odds and ends behind his counter, Belle felt a sinking realization that it was, logically, the solution to her problem. She desperately needed the coin, and the man was right. In the stuffy southern heat, she would never need a cloak to keep her warm. She reached up, her hand curling over the silver brooch that clasped her cloak at her throat. The thought of selling the very clothes off her back put a sour taste in her mouth, but what hurt her more was the realization it was the only thing Rumpelstiltskin had given her besides her dress that had ever been truly hers, something she had earned and he had given out of kindness for her. It was that small bit of evidence to the contrary thought that she wasn’t just another dusty relic in the Dark Castle but someone he tended to, saw after, and cared for.  
  
Such sentimentality, she knew, could not be afforded now.  
  
“Alright-” Belle stepped back closer to the vendor, her throat tight as she set her basket down. The merchant turned to her just as she unfastened the brooch and slipped her cloak off her shoulders. The answering coolness against the trapped heat of her back beneath her hair and against her neck was a blessing, and she delicately folded the cloak and pinned the brooch at the top.  
  
The merchant held out his hands expectantly, but Belle hesitated before she offered it to him. As if her imp stood just behind her shoulder whispering in her ear, she narrowed her eyes shrewdly and said, “For a price.”  
  
The merchant chuckled, nodding appreciatively, “Name your price, mistress.”  
  
Belle hesitated. She knew nothing in the way of bartering. Everything had always been provided for her under her father’s roof, and the only time she’d ever had to buy anything on her own was straw for Rumpelstiltskin. He had told her to simply give the coin to the townspeople, that they would know and understand what she was there for. Feeling more unsure of herself than ever, Belle glanced up at the merchant and asked, “How much will you give me for it?”  
  
With an impatient wave of his hand, Belle handed him the cloak finally for his inspection. He shook it out, took stock of the hems and seams, then looked at the brooch under a candle’s flame. With all the lovely tapestries, Belle supposed he knew what qualities he was looking for, and he straightened and said, “Fifteen silver.”  
  
“Twenty with the brooch,” Belle protested, sounding more confident than she felt. It felt too low a price, but she had not the assertiveness to go higher.  
  
The merchant hesitated before nodding. He offered her the money, and then paused again, his eyes rounding like the very coins he handed to Belle. “Your pearl would fetch quite a sum, too,” he added.  
  
“I couldn’t possibly,” her hand leapt to her throat, covering the small pearl that graced her neck. “It was my mother’s.” But the rational part of her mind was whispering to her again. She didn’t know where she would be in a few days’ time, nor did she have any means to make money. As it stood, she had enough money for a meal and a night at an inn, but after that she would be destitute again. Her one memento of her mothers, the small pearl encrusted in gold, was all she had to her name now that she realized it. It wasn’t grand or strikingly beautiful, but it was well kept and valuable. She felt as though she were betraying her mother’s memory, and her father’s precious gift that he had given to Belle as a girl after his wife’s death, but she knew neither would like it if she chose frippery over good sense.  
  
By the time Belle had made the exchange, she held fifty shillings of silver to accompany her heavy shoulders and hollow heart.  
  
Choosing one of the quieter pubs, Belle seated herself in the corner near the fire with a hot meal and a meager cup of ale, turning over her thoughts of what to do next. It was quiet aside from a young boy sitting in the corner peeling potatoes and a group of men a few tables over closer to the bar.   
  
As much as she wanted to think on her last night in the Dark Castle, hoping to discover what she’d done wrong, she couldn’t live in the past, that much she had told herself even though her dreams insistently pulled her back to that same night, that same moment over and again. In truth, she was almost thankful Rumpelstiltskin had turned her out. Had he made the choice to let her stay but forbidden her from his presence, or worse, tried to pretend nothing had happened, she would not have been able to stand it.  
  
After eating her fill of rabbit and vegetables, though she didn’t have the appetite after her experience in the market, Belle leaned her head on her fist and closed her eyes, listening to the singer and lute player across the pub. She knew she was feeling sorry for herself, her heart sickness playing off her mood. She thought back to the mermaid Kyme and her wisdom she’d paid her. Don’t doubt your bearings, she had said. There’s a reason the mind sits atop the heart.  
  
With her mind lulling to the memories of the mermaids, Belle was only dimly aware that she was picking up bits of conversation from the men across from her. They were sailors from the sound of them, their accents thick and their voices rough and brusque. Some of the words coming from their table made Belle’s face burn in blushes, a strange tingle dancing up her spine. Her father, nor Gaston, not even Rumpelstiltskin had used such language in front of her, and Belle knew they’d be scandalized to find her in such an establishment, but now that she could hear them, her curiosity overruled her manners.  
  
“We’re taking enough risk just layin’ into port,” one of the men growled over his mug of ale. Belle peeked an eye open, staying perfectly still near the fire as she spied on them. The man looked like a pitbull, with a bald head and a scraggly beard, pot bellied and sunburned face surrounding ugly yellowed teeth, and he muttered, “We need to be off, and quick about it.”  
  
“Not if you don’t give us away and hush,” a thin, reedy man sitting beside him replied.  
  
“Nay, I think the lad’s right about it,” another whispered, and Belle closed her eyes again and listened harder, thinking to keep her face smooth and calm. She hoped she only appeared to be asleep. “Never liked the feel of this place, too much hornswaggle for my taste, especially from you know who.”  
  
“Relax, mate,” a deeper voice purred, all velvet wrapped steel. “We’ll be on about our way before dawn to the sung shores of Agrabah and after that to Devil’s Turnpike,” his voice muffled for a moment, and she supposed he was taking a drink. “See to yourselves you buy a few more bottles, eh?”  
  
Chairs scraping against the floor and a ruckus of raised, slurring voices swelled in the quiet, and Belle wondered if she was alone again. Before she could see for herself, a loud thud shook the table, jarring her out of her act and startling her so violently she almost fell from her seat. Her eyes flew open to find one of the most rugged and elaborate looking men she’d ever seen leaning against her table and gazing down at her with kohl lined eyes and bronzed skin. He had beads, medallions, and coins threaded in his dark mane, even in his goatee. Belle swallowed, for he loomed over her, dark and intimidating and closer to sneering than smiling. She felt as though he were handsome, but something about his countenance did not allow for her admiration.  
  
“Good evening, my wee poppet,” he drawled, his bejeweled hand covering the rim of his mug, leaning on the tabletop before gesturing with his other hand. “I hate to disturb you, but I’ve a bone to pick.”  
  
Belle swallowed hard, forcing herself still and to keep from squirming under his dark eyes. “Y-Yes?”  
  
The man leaned forward, invading Belle’s personal space with an unnerving ease until his face was mere inches from hers, his breath heavy with spiced rum as he murmured, “Couldn’t help but notice you dropping a bit of eaves on us, and flattered as I am, darling... I really can’t have you telling any of my secrets.”  
  
Blood rushed in her ears, and it felt like her heart was going to burst out of her chest. Her voice was breathless as she sputtered, “I d-didn’t- I swear, I heard nothing-”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
Suddenly his hand, warm and rough with callouses, was under her chin, tilting her face up so her blue eyes met his brown ones, and he held her still, searching her with his gaze. Belle’s nails scraped against the wood of the tabletop in anxiety, wishing she could pull away, but she dared not. She could scream, twist and writhe until someone heard, but the noise outside the pub would drown her out, and the bar master had left his post. She was alone.  
  
And then the man’s face softened for a brief moment, his eyes flickering in something all too familiar that Belle had once glimpsed- regret, shame, and perhaps pity. “The bloody hell’s a lass like you doin’ out here? Yous what they call a lady, or so I imagine.”  
  
For all the cold nights she had braved, the miserable dreams and helpless catches she’d endured, it was those few gentle words that made her throat tighten and her eyes water. She was miles from the closest thing to home she’d known in months, leagues from the only family she ever had, and she’d had to travel a world away to find a bit of kindness from an utter stranger with gold teeth and wandering eyes.  
  
“I don’t know, honestly,” Belle whispered, and she felt so outside herself, beyond who she’d thought she was, that the words fell freely from her lips. She shook her head, closing her eyes to try to stay off the tears that were inevitable as the stranger slid into the chair opposite of her, leaning on his elbows and listening close. “I have nowhere to go and no means to get me there. But I can’t... I can’t go home, you see,” she hesitated upon the half-truth, licking her lips and looking down at her hands. “But neither can I go back to where I was.”  
  
The man inclined his head, glancing about and shifting uncomfortably. “Are you... in a-” he waved his hands helplessly. “-a bad way, as it were?”  
  
Belle’s eyes widened and she blanched, “Of course not!”  
  
“It’s not so far fetched as you think, darling,” he chuckled, taking a sip of his drink and crossing his knees. He was oddly graceful, slender too, with a cockiness that Belle found distasteful in most men, but his easy temperance made her feel more relaxed.   
  
“I’m not that kind of woman,” Belle protested meekly. She dabbed at her cheeks with the back of her fingers, sniffling. “But it seems I’m not nearly as clever as I thought I was.”  
  
“Or alert,” the stranger piped, gesturing with his hand. “The little git with the potatoes made off with your silver while you were trying to spy on me.”  
  
Belle glanced down at where she’d left her money, the realization that she’d been pickpocketed for the few shillings she’d had left from selling her mother’s necklace and Rumpelstiltskin’s cloak. More tears, but this time angry, hot with frustration built in her eyes and her hands balled into fists in her lap. She wasn’t prone to anger, but in that moment she would have gladly hit someone. “I didn’t-” she shot the stranger a glare. “You could have said something!”  
  
“And leave a hard working child bereft of his profits?” he raised a hand to his chest in mock indignation, and not for the first time upon meeting him did Belle feel a miserable sense of familiarity at the flighty gesture. Her anger quickly cooled, tamed from the sickness of her heart again, and she dropped her eyes to the table as the man said, not ungently, “Must be more careful, lass.”  
  
“I don’t know what to do,” Belle confessed, shaking her head again. Oh, how sorry she felt for herself! It was a pit she couldn’t seem to climb her way out of, and the simple truth that she knew so little about the world she wanted to see and experience tempered her ambition. “Or where to go, or how to even begin.”  
  
A sore silence settled between the two before the stranger swung his mug up and finished the drink, striking it solidly against the table top. He swept himself up and smiled down at Belle before taking up both her hands and pressing something cold against her palm, “If you finish feeling down and out about yourself, poppet, I’m docked at the east end,” he pressed a kiss to her knuckles, leaving Belle flushed and dazed as he tipped his hat to her and spun on his heel, swaggering to the door. “There’s always a place with me for those who have nothing to lose, and we find it’s easiest to start at the beginning.”  
  
A careless glance and Belle saw he’d given her a coin, a very old coin and solid gold with a crude carved death mask on both sides. More than that, he was giving her a choice, a chance.  
  
Half standing, Belle called after him, “But how will I know which ship is yours?”  
  
The stranger jerked the pub’s door open, his eyes dancing as he swung back around to face her, smirking, “Look for black sails.”


	3. The Fool to be Pitied

Making her way to the docks proved to be another experience all on its own, and with a firmer grasp on her own direction, Belle held herself straighter, taller, surer, even though she didn’t quite feel it yet. After she had finished her drink and dried her eyes over the hurt she’d felt from being stolen from, as well as losing her dearest possessions, she nursed a sickness in her heart all on its own, born anew of the idea of leaving the only land she’d ever seen. Dreams were lovely and born of purity, but when the moment came to decide whether to take the plunge into the unknown, Belle hesitated. They were, after all, complete strangers, and did not seem of the savory variety, but Belle knew they meant her no harm, at least the man in charge did not.   
  
Entering back into the swarm of the marketplace, Belle was surprised to find it still busy, if not busier than when she had left it. Entertainers had trickled through the cobbled streets, musicians and singers, magicians and fire breathers, even a man who claimed he could swallow swords whole! Belle quickly ducked her head before that demonstration, though, too afraid of the nasty outcome, should something go wrong. In her experience, something always went wrong.   
  
Navigating through the docks was tricky, she found, especially in the dark. The pirate had said to look for black sails, but all the sails looked black at night! She should have asked for some other marker, or perhaps where he’d docked. She did find it quite fascinating to see the various ships-glossy runners with staunch white sails, girthy brigs built like monsters, regal schooners with their double masts, and longships with sheets of dyed silk that glittered sheerly in the moonlight.  
  
But then Belle spotted it, and she knew it when she did. It was an old beauty, a rustic and legendary galleon with a sooty hull and tattered black sails. Squinting, Belle could see two men lost in the rigging, tending to tears. She could hear the hustle and bustle on deck, men shouting and making quick with their work, and she knew the time was of the essence. Squeezing her hand tightly around the coin she’d been gifted, Belle made her way down the docks all the way to the very end where the ship floated calmly. The closer she got, however, the uneasier she grew. The ship had a positively ghostly quality to it, eerie and dark-in fact, it appeared to have been burned.  
  
As Belle neared, slowing her step to allow her eyes to take in the charred wood and the carved figurehead, a winged woman setting a bird free, her heart was in her throat, and she was quite on the verge of turning and running.  
  
“Decided to join our lot of brigands after all?” called a familiar voice, and when she looked up, Belle found the pirate from the pub smiling down at her, his gold teeth glinting in the moonlight as he held onto the rigging, one boot steadying him against the side, peering down at her.  
  
Belle ruffled her nose, taking a deep breath. Not trusting herself to speak, she gave one firm nod, hoping she exuded the confidence she did not feel.  
  
The pirate’s dark eyes twinkled in approval. “Aye, then. The gangplank!” barked the pirate, and Belle surmised this to be the captain from how quickly everyone moved beneath his command. When the bridge was lowered, Belle took her time scaling it, tightening her hands about the handle of her basket with white knuckles, hoping to mask her trembling. She could taste folly in her course already, knowing it to be unsafe-she’d heard tales, such tales...  
  
When she hopped over the threshold of the gangplank, Belle quite felt like she was in a completely different world. Her hand went out to steady herself, her eyes growing as wide as coins to feel the ship rocking beneath her. The decorated captain swaggered over, obviously well used to such shifting movement beneath his boots, his fingers twirling in a familiar manner, matching his glittering smile. “Not to worry, darling, you’ll get your sea legs soon enough.”  
  
“I’ve never been aboard a ship before,” Belle confessed sheepishly, gulping. She let go slowly before standing straight, blushing under the apprehensive looks the portly boatswain and smirking captain were giving her. Putting on a brave face, Belle tried to smile, “But I have always wanted to see the world.”  
  
“Come to the right place then,” the captain spun Belle about, lounging his arm around her shoulders and pulling her in close to his side as they headed to the upper deck. Belle had no choice but to follow, glancing around at the crew as much as she could before the captain steered her towards the helm, wearing the scent of leather, brine, and rum like a cologne. “What’s your name, darling?” he asked, pulling out what appeared to be a tiny black box.  
  
Belle hesitated, setting her basket down carefully and twisting her hands into her skirt. “Belle.”  
  
The captain leaned against the helm, setting his dark eyes on her challengingly. “Tell me, Miss Belle, are you running from anything? Anyone?” He took a step closer, predatory and suddenly very, very intimidating. Belle felt her throat tighten as he backed her up against the edge of the ship, narrowing his kohl lined eyes at her face. He tipped her chin up with one golden ringed finger, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Truth now, poppet. Can’t have any beasties tailing us, you see.”  
  
Belle squeaked, “How did you-”  
  
“I can recognize someone who wants their freedom,” his fingers were calloused and rough against the skin of her jaw, but he cradled her, held her at her tiptoes as he stared her down. His voice was deep with meaning, and Belle could have sworn he was willing her to turn back. “I know the look of someone who wants to choose for themselves.”   
  
“But I am-I am free.”  
  
“No, you’re not.”  
  
And oh, his smile was cruel in its pity, and it was all Belle could do against the onslaught of fatigue and broken emotion and utter defeat in the face of the unknown to not break down and cry like a little girl needing her father’s embrace. Because as it stood she had nothing to her name, nothing to call her own, and certainly no where to go, and yet she was seeking sanctuary from a pirate with no flags to fly, and he was the first bit of kindness she had found. And Belle knew he was right- she wasn’t free, not truly. Rumpelstiltskin had dealt for her, with her, for forever. Had she known that it would everlast even in the wake of the contract’s dissolvement, that her heart would be subjugated in the fine print, would she still had accepted his terms?  
  
Something within her wished that she could know for sure, but as it stood, Rumpelstiltskin was not the only one left with an empty heart, no matter what words she had brandished in their final moments together.  
  
The pirate let his hand drop and gave a short sigh, nodding firmly. Whatever he saw in her face seemed to decide for him exactly what he intended to do. “Right, well you’ll have to lift, pull, fetch, and carry,” the pirate spun on the heel of his boot, sashaying back to the helm. “Not to mention your chores.”  
  
“You-” Belle blinked, too stunned to comprehend the words. She sniffled, wiping her face furiously as she hurried to follow after him. “You’ll allow me passage?”  
  
“Won’t be easy,” the pirate muttered under his breath, his voice dripping with more disdain by the moment as if he were already regretting the decision. “And if you get in anyone’s way, we’re leaving you at next port.”  
  
“Oh, I’m-I’m a good worker,” Belle assured him, scuttling after on the tips of her toes. “I won’t get in the way, I promise!”  
  
And she didn’t. As Belle quickly found out, she couldn’t have helped even if she’d wanted to, so frequently attached to the railing was she, emptying her stomach over the side of the ship so often that she was of little use to anyone. At one point the captain passed her, slapping her on the back with a bright and cheery, “Brace yourself, poppet!” before going about his business, leaving Belle to heave again. Standing near the stern, she was able to watch the port, Dorstonis, and the Enchanted Forest behind it slowly shrink into the distance, becoming more like a drawing against the choppy waters before it disappeared on the horizon all together.  
  
And, slowly, Belle felt a sense of release. The lands she’d known, the people she’d loved and saved- they didn’t need her now. Her people were safe and prosperous. Gaston could pursue his military career. Rumpelstiltskin could continue his magical work in solitude.  
  
No one needed nor wanted her, and that was strangely freeing all on its own.  
  
A slight tickle brushed against her arm, and Belle startled out of her daze to find a tall, thin man leaning on a mop, standing near her. He was blond, and had seen too much sun, as evidenced by his red, peeling skin and weather worn hands. His wooden eye rolled from side to side as he tilted his head, and it was the way he held himself, hunched and bowed as if ready for her to snap at him while he merely offered her a simple linen handkerchief.   
  
Belle took it gently, sparing a weak, watery smile. “Thank you.”  
  
“Still a bit green,” he said haltingly, his hand gesturing to his own face, blinking at her. “Do you feel better?”  
  
“I think I’m getting used to it, bit by bit,” she said slowly, patting her mouth with the bit of cloth. “I didn’t know the ocean could make me so ill.”  
  
The man pulled out a little pouch that hung from his belt and untied it, offering it to her. “Chew some of this, miss. It might do you good,” he added before taking his mop and picking up his bucket, moving about the rest of the deck. Belle watched him go before she looked into the pouch to find small, brownish yellow rocks. They smelled lovely, almost fragrant. Furrowing her brow, she took one out and popped it into her mouth. It was hard and a little grainy, but the taste of ginger flooded her senses immediately.  
  
Surprisingly, it did ease the queasiness of her tummy, and Belle was able to walk down the deck with relative peace after that, keeping one of the ginger squares under her tongue at all times lest she become sick again. Feeling too restless to sit aimlessly but too skittish to do anything that would bring her attention back on the choppy water, Belle found the man who’d given her the pouch on the main deck near the guns. He smiled with crooked, yellowed teeth, what few he had left, bobbing his head humbly at her approach.  
  
“Might I help you?”  
  
Together, they scrubbed the quarterdeck, and Belle felt the satisfying work of her arm muscles as she moved the brush over the hardwood, sitting on her knees. The rocking of the ship was a bit easier to take when she was down low, and smelling lye and brine and ginger all mixed together was not an unpleasant aroma. Able to be doing something she knew she could handle and not feeling so useless stuck vomiting into the ocean, she felt more optimistic. Matched with the companionable silence, Belle let her heart lift itself up and breathed deep and sweet for the first time in days, relishing in the familiar chore.   
  
As dusk set in and twilight yawned over the horizon, Belle noticed the men starting to arrange the sails and tie off the ropes more securely, everything being pulled in tighter. At her curious glance, her gangly one eyed companion offered a rotten smile, “For the night waters, miss,” he explained, picking his sodden self up. “Choppy and dark, with more winds, you see.”  
  
“Oh.” She didn’t. She had no idea, but he would know more than she, so she followed him to the edge of a large hatch in the middle of the main deck, eyeing the ladder made of rotten wood and brine crusted ropes.   
  
Just before she made to follow, a hand grabbed her upper arm and Belle gasped, turning to face the man with the salt and pepper beard, the boatswain. Startling, as off put by her presence as she was his, he put a hand up to stay her and cleared his throat, his voice rough, “Captain wants a word with you, missy.”  
  
“W-What for?” Belle asked, too tired and too lost of her own wits to try to quell the quiver in her voice.  
  
The boatswain didn’t answer her question, but simply ordered, “Walk.” Belle ducked ahead of him, throwing her hand up to shield her eyes from the ocean that rocked and rolled beneath them. She collected her cloak and basket that she’d tucked under the stairs and followed the path down a darkened hallway that was so narrow she almost had to walk sideways. A door at the end opened with a loud bang, and Belle was shuffled inside before the door shut again behind her, leaving her in a warm, smoky room that smelled of tobacco, parchment, and something foreign and sharp to her nose, something she couldn’t quite name.   
  
The captain’s cabin was dark but lit dimly with candles amidst the storm of maps and papers that littered the table and desk. A small cot was off to the side and looked like it hadn’t been used in years. The walls were covered in tribal masks, golden helms and polished steel weapons. The thick carpet beneath her heels had some sort of monster scrawled across the floor, but in the shadows it was too hard to make out. It was a room of relics, and not a speck of dust to be seen.  
  
Belle quite adored it.  
  
“Didn’t fall overboard?” the captain asked, and she glanced around until her blue eyes rested on the shadow that lounged in the window sill overlooking the black waters below. He turned to her, a glint catching in his smile before unfolding his long legs, his boots striking the floor with a muffled thump. He kicked a carved mahogany chair opposite him, sending it a few inches in her direction. “Sit.”  
  
Belle took the seat cautiously, swallowing as she watched the captain move to a cabinet with glass panes and a heavy lock. Once opened, he retrieved a bright turquoise stoppered bottle and a pewter goblet, pushing it closed with a swagger of his hip before walking to her. He poured dark, golden liquid into the cup and handed it to her, ignoring her wince as she took it humbly. Belle sniffed it experimentally, waiting until she saw him take a generous swig straight from the bottle before taking a sip herself. It was richer with heavier spices than any ale or beer she had ever tried, with a strangely sweet note at the bottom that had her licking her lips.  
  
“What were you doing in port?” Belle ventured after the quiet began to grow uncomfortable. She supposed that most sailors traded, sold, and bought when they docked, but pirates... well, if the stories she’d read were to be believed, pirates didn’t simply just take harbor.  
  
The captain’s dark eyes glittered when he pulled them from gazing at a candle, the odd ornaments in his hair tinkling pleasantly as he tapped his fingers along the neck of the bottle, his rings making quiet sounds against the glass. “Business,” he said easily.  
  
“Business?”   
  
“Aye, a bit...” the captain hesitated, smirking at her as if a joke came to mind. “Nothing for a lady’s ears.”  
  
Belle thought about that, words she’d heard all her life. Was it true, still? She was a woman grown, if still young. But she was no lady, and didn’t pretend to be, not after everything that had happened. She hardly felt like herself, a fallen knight’s daughter turned maid to a dark and dusty castle of a master who believed himself a monster, to the lover of a man with a warm, kind soul beneath flinty scales and a curse, to a turned out woman with nothing to lose. Was modesty something she could afford, even now? Was it truly so important, against survival, when put up with the understanding of the world?  
  
“I don’t wish to be teased,” Belle finally said, tracing her fingertip over the rim of the goblet. She rolled her eyes tiredly up to the captain, laying her head back against the chair. “Speak your piece, Captain, that I might retire, please.”  
  
The captain watched her closely before sliding into his opposite chair, folding his ankles one over the other atop the table, leaning the bottle on his hip. “Tell me the tale of the northern maiden who put out to sea,” he drawled, narrowing his eyes. “With no purpose in mind.”  
  
Belle blushed brightly, looking down at the drink cradled between her hands. “It’s rather a long story,” she whispered.  
  
“I’ve plenty more bottles, poppet.”  
  
A smile flickered on the edge of her lips, and she glanced up, sighing deeply enough to raise her shoulders gently. “It’s not so exciting as it sounds,” she said patiently. “I made a deal I didn’t understand...I agreed to leave my home to save it from the ogre wars, but then something happened. I didn’t mean for it to, but-” a shrug was the only thing she could muster to finish her thought. Could her love story truly be summed up so carelessly as that? All she’d sacrificed, cared for, risked?  
  
“You’re not running from anyone. Seems to me you’re trying to run to someone, but who?” The captain tilted his head, stroking his dark goatee. Sitting up, the captain took another swig of the bottle before leaning his elbows on his knees, staring hard at Belle as if to read right inside her mind. “A heavy heart and a clouded mind make for a messy situation, lass. Whoever it is you’re looking for, you won’t find them out here.”  
  
“No?” Belle asked with a rueful smile, glancing up. “I never said I was looking for anyone. If I wanted anything, it was adventure-once,” she allowed, setting the goblet in front of her on the table between scrolls and maps. “If that’s what I’m after, I believe I’m off to a good start, don’t you think?”  
  
“Everyone says they want adventure when they’ve been hurt,” the captain snorted, his voice dripping with cruel disdain. “But that’s the real deal you don’t bargain for. Your hurt pushing you to do silly misdeeds that will harm you in the end. Who hurt you, I wonder?”  
  
“No one.”  
  
“A lover, then,” Belle flushed at his words, but her eyes hardened when his smile grew. “Ah, yes. I’ve seen that look many-a-time. It wasn’t your master, else you’d be in a vengeance, not wilting like a flower.” When Belle said nothing, but ducked her eyes, the captain’s glittering eyes brightened, raising his eyebrows. “Master and lover, then.”  
  
“Stop,” Belle murmured, curling her fingers together over her heart that was cracking completely in two. “Please, stop.”  
  
After a long, quiet moment, the captain cleared his throat, “Can’t imagine who’d be fool enough to turn down the likes o’ you. I was sure it was the other way around.”  
  
“No, not at all,” Belle choked on a lame little laugh, wet and pathetic.  
  
“Interesting,” the captain tapped his nails along his bottle before standing up again with a sweep. “More’s the fool to be pitied. And now you’re on an adventure,” she could see him twirl his hand in her peripheral vision, and Belle nearly began to cry at the sight, especially when he asked, “Is it everything you hoped?”  
  
“No,” Belle’s voice was hoarse, putting a hand to her stomach where she began to feel nauseous all over again. She couldn’t think about such things, she couldn’t keep looking back at what she’d done, what had happened, or how it could have been. A thought flickered through her mind, the one bright spot in the few days since her life had been so terribly turned about, and she almost laughed, mirthless and out of grief thought it was, “I did happened upon mermaids, though.”  
  
The captain blinked dumbly at her, glancing between her goblet and his bottle before tilting his head, “I believe you’ve had too much sauce, poppet.”   
  
“No,” Belle smiled then, shaking her head. “No, it’s true.”  
  
His face was so incredibly stoic, so still that Belle felt her heart go cold until his smile broke his face and he chuckled, “Of course you did, doll,” he purred in humor.  
  
Belle frowned, standing up. “I can prove it,” she declared, taking careful steps across the room where she’d set her basket down near the door. Ducking her hand beneath the handkerchief, she pulled out the silver looking glass and turned, presenting it to the captain with an air of pride. “They even gave me a favor.”  
  
His eyes rounded like almonds when he took in the sight of the mirror, and in the next moment he was on his feet, striding right up to her and gripping her arm urgently. “Give me that,” he growled, yanking it right out of her hands.  
  
“Wait, you can’t-”  
  
Before Belle could stop him, he’d crossed the room and flung the window open. With a surprisingly strong arm, he chunked the beautiful mirror out so far that Belle couldn’t see at all where it had landed in the water, even though she tried to snatch it from him before he let it go. “How dare you!” she gasped, rounding on him, ignoring his hardened face. “That was mine!”  
  
“It’s magic, and evil at that,” the captain growled, his hands gripping her arms securely. “These mermaids- what did they look like? Were they beautiful or monstrous?”  
  
Belle blinked up at him in confusion. What kind of question was that? Surely, they had been beautiful, but they hadn’t looked, well, normal- at his insistent shake, her teeth rattled in her mouth and she squirmed away, pushing against his shoulders with the heels of her hands, “Let go!”  
  
He opened his mouth, and Belle was quite sure he was intent on shouting at her, but before he could, a loud, eerie scream cut the quiet night, so dreadfully piercing it left Belle’s ears ringing. “Damn it all to hell,” the captain growled, turning on his heel and flinging the door open. Belle scrambled after him, glancing back fretfully at the open window left to bang against the sill.   
  
Before they’d hit the main deck, Belle could hear the screams and see the fire- the sails, black as charcoal had been set ablaze, a long tear in the middle seam from top to bottom sending it flapping dangerously against the wind, sending sparks across the deck. Little tongues of flame were catching on ropes, and the sailors seemed mostly concerned with keeping it away from the guns. The captain put his arm out in front of her when she made to follow him, before one of the crew members was shot, straight through the chest to fall at their feet in a heap of liquor soured flesh and ratted clothing. Blood pooled from beneath his body, and in the dark it had been impossible to see but as her eyes adjusted Belle could make out that the whole of the deck was slick with the dark red wash.   
  
“Oil!” the captain roared over the din, swinging himself up around the stairs to get to the helm. “The oil barrels, lads, now!”  
  
Belle stared at the dead man at her feet, caught in terror and shock, her eyes wincing through the bright firelight that was slowly catching all around the ship. At first she had thought it was an arrow, but upon closer inspection, it didn’t... it looked more like a very long, slender spike, almost like a spear.  
  
A thunderous vibration shook the hull of the ship, and Belle threw her arms out, holding onto the railing of the stairs to steady herself. A loud, wailing groan began to give way as the ship splintered, cracking right up through the middle from both sides like an egg being opened. Belle stared in horror at the wreckage, the falling sailors who flung themselves overboard, the smell of burning wood and oil thick in the air. Looking out at the black water, Belle felt her heart swell in her breast at what she knew she had to do, what she was incapable of doing but had no choice, if she wished to live.  
  
Lifting her skirts and straddling the side of the ship as it began to take on more water, Belle took a deep breath, as deep as she could and jumped over the side, plunging down into the murky, dark waves below. She fell straight down, like a pin, and the more water her skirts began to take on, the heavier she felt, and the harder it was to kick. She tried moving her arms, squirming through the salty water as much as she could, but it was almost no use. With dying men all around her, in the middle of the ocean, Belle was sinking fast into the fathoms below.  
  
And she had no idea how to swim.


	4. Fear in Dust

Deals were delicate things. Like gold, they were malleable, sensitive to any influence or touch, but they could also be warm. The people who called the Dark One cold and unfeeling simply didn’t know the fine point of a deal, hot with the blood of the desperate soul who needed it most. And like all delicate things, deals and gold and porcelain, Rumpelstiltskin treated them gently, meticulously, and reverently. When he made a deal, he _honored_ it.

Death didn’t change that. If anything, death only made it burn all the more, a living slip of flame he tasted at the back of his throat. The deals touched by death were the most potent, found in the nights he spent wrapped in heated magic, pouring over tomes and scrolls, tinkering with enchanted artifacts, and doing everything in his unseeable power to rid himself of the memory of soft auburn hair and eyes bluer than a frosted sky. 

Such a little woman, a winsome and sparkling bit of light that held a mountain inside her like magic he would never understand, but he had made a deal. Though dissolved, he gave his word. Her family, her friends would all live.

Once they begged him for it, of course.

It had been a struggle for him to reconcile coming back to Avonlea, to Sir Maurice’s estate. He had promised Belle that her lands would be safe, and they had not just been safe but flourished since her sacrifice. The burned fields had grown harvests, people laughed and smiled and healed themselves. He tasted bile at the back of his parched throat, seeing them so happy-so utterly, _disgustingly_ at ease with themselves when their lady had thrown herself from her tower, broken and bleeding.

His anger had always been a dangerous thing, but he’d forgotten what fury-that raw, pulsing ache beneath his ribs-felt like until Belle had kissed him. When his tears were spent over dusty mantles in the wake of the Evil Queen’s departure, he’d taken a flask of firewhiskey to his lips and only when his eyes burned did he decide to enclose his fist around the thick gullet of Sir Maurice. He would answer for his crimes. He would give his word, as Belle had given hers.

Rumpelstiltskin had counted on his anger to carry him to hell and back, so all-consuming was it, but when he swallowed the taste of ash to materialize within the walls of the estate, it quickly cooled at the sight of the quiet, still room.

Belle’s room.

The early twilight was setting in beyond the windows, filling the space with a rosy golden light. Rumpelstiltskin stood stoic and unmoving, lips parted as his eyes took in what he saw. The room was overwhelmingly consumed by books, and had there been no bed, it would have been a grander library. Shelves lined most of the walls, ornate and heavy mahogany. Colorful books of thick, rich leather spines, all worn from being handled. A desk before the grandest window faced the largest field that overlooked the village, and Rumpelstiltskin found himself drifting towards it, his fingers knotting in front of him as he glanced down.

Belle had always been a neat and concise little thing, but her desk was clearly organized chaos (he recognized it, a pattern familiar to him from his own turret). There was a thick packet of letters bound with a soft pink ribbon tucked off to the side, a smaller stack of books lining the length of the desk at the top (her favorites, he suspected, the ones she reached for the most), a small crystal vase of dried flowers (wildflowers, honeysuckle, sweet pea), a collection of maps spread out beneath everything else that peeked out from under pages of practiced calligraphy in other languages. Rumpelstiltskin’s heart began to sink painfully in his chest, feeling the magic tingling in the letters, hearing her love of words and knowledge calling to him from her penmanship.

A bright, brilliant mind, gone forever.

There was no vanity, something he did not find surprising. Of course Belle would choose a desk, functionality and pragmatism over glamour. There was a wardrobe though, and he could see through the gently cracked doors that soft linens, dyed the gentlest colors of spring and fall fluttered with moths. Absolutely nothing within the room had been touched in some time, more than anything the four poster bed that stood with a humble silvery blue canopy.

There was nothing ostentatious, but it was just as fine as its lady had ever been. Where most princesses wanted to shine and glitter like diamonds, Belle had glowed. She was like the gold that held the precious stones, warm and soft but strong, capable, and enduring.

When Rumpelstiltskin found enough of his own strength to cross the room to the door, he found it bolted shut, and his anger returned once more.

Enclosed in a tower, the queen had said. Let not the tainted lady even her greatest pleasures, her treasures and refuge. They had put her elsewhere, instead of her own room, somewhere cold and bare and loud with only the wind to drive her mad.

With a sizzling anger snapping a violent purple at his fingertips, Rumpelstiltskin threw the doors open so hard they crashed against the walls, hinges and latches shattering like glass instead of iron.

Belle's door would never be closed again.

A shriek and a handful of gasping squeals of flighty maids from down the hall told him he was not alone before he took a step out of the room. He walked with a powerful stride that sent servants running, and with every step the torches, candelabras, and sconces extinguished until the castle was shrouded in darkness at his heels.

It was not hard to find Sir Maurice, but Rumpelstiltskin supposed that when a beast came to call at one’s castle, terrorizing the help and vandalizing the infrastructure, it was best to assess the damage rather than hide. When his boots met the top of the grand staircase, Rumpelstiltskin tilted his head as he regarded the lord beneath him with red ringed eyes and his hands behind his back.

The former knight stood at the base of the stairs with a small army of guards behind him, having been warned of the abrupt arrival, he was sure. The sorcerer surveyed the men quivering in their armor, particularly pleased with himself remembering the rose he’d turned Sir Gaston into.

Perhaps he’d have a rose garden, now, with their wormy faces for the richest fertilizer.

“We did not call you,” Sir Maurice said, his voice curiously devoid of fear. Perhaps Belle had gotten more of her bravery from her father than she’d thought. “No one called you. What is it you want?”

At Rumpelstiltskin’s silence, when he merely narrowed his eyes to dangerous, flinty slits, Sir Maurice swallowed, his fists tightening on either side of him stalwartly. His hair was slick with sweat at the back of his neck and his temples that framed his flabby cheeks. Rumpelstiltskin wondered if Belle had eaten in the days she’d been confined, for her father didn’t seem to waste away one pound. Had the oaf skipped one meal, missed a night’s rest over the beautiful daughter he’d locked away?

Though, for all intents and purposes, the Spinner did not shortchange the lord. Sir Maurice was responsible for his daughter’s death, and he might as well have pushed her from that tower himself, as far as Rumpelstiltskin was concerned. He would see justice for her death. He _would_ have justice.

The leather of his scaly mantel flapped against the thick leather of his boots as he slowly took each prowling step of the stairs, never blinking the image of the sweaty, flabby lord away. When he came to stand three steps above Sir Maurice, the guards brandished their spears at Rumpelstiltskin, and the sorcerer released an unnerving, unusually high giggle of delight.

“You come at me with blades again, Sir Maurice,” Rumpelstiltskin twittered, bearing his yellow stained teeth at the man, wishing to sink them into his thick throat. “When I could choke the life out of your crumbling little castle with a tightening of my fist. Tarry a little, before you tempt me,” he threw his hand up with a flourish, and suddenly Sir Maurice stood alone, in front of several piles of ash that littered the polished marble floors just as the spears clattered to the floor. When the lord turned his wide blue eyes upon the demon, Rumpelstiltskin returned with a blackened glare and a snarling smile, “For I can show you fear in dust.”

The thrill that tingled up from the back of his heels through his spine to the base of his neck when Sir Maurice staggered away from his disintegrated guards, pale and fear stricken, again brought out the demonic giggle that Rumpelstiltskin thought had disappeared under his newfound sincerity-or had that been Belle’s?

As the demon took one light, halting step, head cocked and eyes narrowed at the old, flabby knight, he felt his fingers tighten into fists, the slight sting of his ragged black nails cutting into the flesh of his palms. Sir Maurice fell with a loud thud to his knees, staring unseeing at the dust before him as the spinner’s heeled boots clicked upon the tile, bringing him close to the man’s side. Credit where credit was due, he did not tremble, or balk at the magician’s prickly presence, and for all that he could taste tar and bile at the back of his throat for seeing the coward who took his beautiful girl’s life, it was anger that let him bend at the hips, his oiled curls tickling the knight’s ear as he whispered, “I will take from you everything you hold dear for this-until you’ve turned to dust and the worms have found a feast of your face.”

Sir Maurice turned his sweat soaked, ashen face up to Rumpelstiltskin’s, his pale blue eyes looking sunken. “Have you not taken my everything, beast?” he asked, his voice hoarse and weak, and though his words were stained with his bitterness, they held nothing but pure defeat. “What more could you possibly want from me, a man with nothing.” Maurice looked back down at the ash piles, blinking as if he didn’t understand what his eyes were seeing. His voice pitched lower, suddenly, as if bracing for something he knew would end him, closing his eyes and curling his hands into the heavy velvet of his cloak. “What more could you do that you have not already done?”

“For a start,” Grasping the man at the back of his collar, Rumpelstiltskin hoisted him upon his feet as if he weighed nothing, and he let the man gasp and choke for his air as his own heavy golden chains cut into his fleshy neck. He could feel the painful spite burning in his eyes behind the firewhiskey, taste the sparks in his lungs as he teeth clacked like bones, baring down on the man who had finally begun to shake in his grasp. “You will tell me where you put her.”

Sir Maurice blinked sweat from his eyes that rolled down his cheeks like tears. “I don-”

“I wasn’t _finished_ , dearie!” Rumpelstiltskin trilled, his voice unnaturally high and trembling the flames of the candelabras. He tightened his claw at the back of the lord’s collar, giggling as he spluttered before dropping him like a sack of meat. He plucked a handkerchief from inside his sleeve, wiping his palm off before turning to step away from the filth. He could not dispose of him before he had his answers, and he _would_ have them. “You will tell me where you put her, put her bones. Then you will show me where you locked her away, and those who tried to _cleanse_ her,” his fingers tightened into the creamy linen of the handkerchief, his nose wrinkling at the delicate embroidery. “And then I will throw you off the tower myself.”

When he turned to face the man, Sir Maurice was still upon the ground, half laying, but he no longer trembled. No, he stared unblinkingly up at the spinner who threatened his life so viciously, his mouth open and eyes wide in utter incomprehension.

Rumpelstiltskin narrowed his gaze, his anger licking at him like flames at his leathers, tapping his fingers incessantly upon his chest. With dripping disdain, he finally growled, “ _What_.”

Shaking his head helplessly, though never blinking, never looking away from the one he called demon, Sir Maurice whispered, “Who...who are you speaking of?”

With two quick strides, Rumpelstiltskin stood over the trembling knight, his heeled boot shoving him onto his back before stepping over his throat just enough to have him gasping. The sorcerer knelt, feeling the squish of flesh beneath his foot, and growled, “Your daughter. Belle.”

It felt inadequate, a lie. Belle had been so much more than just a daughter, merely one role she’d assumed. She’d been a hero, a beautiful, beautiful woman with a clever mind and a brighter heart. Hands tightening into fists, Rumpelstiltskin took a ragged breath, his mind beginning to waver under the heady cloud from the firewhiskey.

Squinting in confusion, Maurice’s hands came up to push at Rumpelstiltskin’s boot just enough to splutter, “Y-You took my Belle-”

“Yes, yes, _yes_!” Rumpelstiltskin trilled, pressing down hard on the man’s thick neck, spittle catching on his lip as his teeth clacked. His voice was a quivering, snarling song in his rage, an uncontainable energy he had yet to master under the emotion of the Dark One’s powers. “And then I let her go! I let her go, _I let her go_ , and she came home-to you!”

The lord choked under the pressure of the sorcerer’s boot, gagging on his own words as he tried to forlornly shake his head. Tears rolled down his temples from the sides of his eyes, mingling with sweat as he quaked in fear.

But it _wasn’t_ fear. Glaring down at the sodden lump of a former knight, Rumpelstiltskin saw no fear on the man, but confusion awash in guilt and despair. Oh yes, he reeked of those, but it was not fear that made him blubber and beg beneath the Dark One’s heel. In his gross, wet pleading, swallowed in his sobs for mercy, Rumpelstiltskin could make out two words.

“Not here. _Not here_.”

With graceful agility that only belonged to the inhuman, Rumpelstiltskin grabbed the oaf of a lord by his collar and thrust him against the stairs, watching with a burning gaze as the man sagged gratefully against the marble, coughing for air. The sorcerer stood motionless, fingertips crackling with the raw, inexplicable need for the hot wetness of blood and truth beneath his nails. “What-” He took two calculated clicking steps, looming over the gasping man. “Do you mean-” Flicking his hand out sharply, he forced Maurice to sit up, made him meet his gaze. “-she’s _not here_.”

Shaking his head, oh so sickeningly fearless, Sir Maurice shook his head helplessly, his pale blue eyes begging, grasping for understanding. “You took Belle with you, and the ogres,” he panted, his hands pawing at the invisible force that held him at the neck. “You took Belle. I haven’t seen her since-no one has seen her since.”

It was the briefest moment when his face slipped, the smallest second when his pupils shrank and a cold sweat broke across his back beneath his silk and leather and dragonhide. For all that his daughter differed from him, Maurice had certainly the fortitude to not lie in the face of danger. Yet that left too many questions unanswered, and Belle’s blood on someone’s hands.

He tightened his hand, gritting his stained, uneven teeth like a baring wolf with raised hackles. “You’re lying.”

“N-No-” Maurice scraped his heels against the marble steps fruitlessly, arching his back against the stairs against the pressure on his throat.

“Where is she!” Rumpelstiltskin snarled, his entire arm shaking from the sheer restraint of not tightening his fist around the man’s neck to see his head pop off like a wine cork. He loomed over Maurice, his breathing gone ragged and stinging inside his chest like a drafty dungeon.

When Belle’s father looked up at him, he was on the knife’s edge of darkness. “Please,” he wept, “where is my girl?”

Rumpelstiltskin’s hand slowly uncurled, and then fell to his side.

Sir Maurice fell heavily back against the stairs, his head earning a hard knock against the marble, gulping mouthfuls of air and closing his eyes. When he was able to sit up once more, the Dark One stood nearly across the room, his back to the stairs, seemingly inspecting the piles of ash scattered about the floor. He’d grown unnervingly still, and as the lord retrieved his handkerchief to mop at his brow and face, he slowly pushed himself upon steady feet, holding tight to the bannister.

“Please,” he said again, this time without the sorrowful warble, but with the clear voice of a leader. “Where is my daughter?”

“Well,” Rumpelstiltskin’s voice was octaves lower, quieter, as still as his familiar prancing movements. He turned his head only slightly, his hair masking most of his profile as he muttered, “Not here, apparently.”

“You mean... you mean she’s gone? Is she lost?” Sir Maurice, it seemed, was as foolhardy as his daughter, for instead of fearful, he grew insistent. “How did this happen? Where is Belle?”

“That’s why I’ve come!” Rumpelstiltskin snarled, spinning on his heel to come toe to toe with the man, but for all his bite, he stood shamefaced under the reality that he, the Dark One, had been tricked. His cheek twitched as the muscles in his face began to relax, sliding into a mask of brooding. “I let her go, dissolved our deal.”

Maurice’s quick intake of breath made Rumpelstiltskin shoot him a shrewd look.

“Yes, it has been _known_ to happen.”

“But you said-” Maurice curled his finger in when he realized he was pointing at the sorcerer, and swallowed so hard his throat wobbled. He took a deep breath, fishing for his handkerchief again. “You said she was here... as though I’d-”

“Someone is playing games with me,” Rumpelstiltskin’s voice was quieter than the flicker of a candle’s flame, yet Sir Maurice’s face drained of all color as the Dark One folded his hands quietly behind his back, toeing his boot across the ashes on the floor.

“My brave girl,” Sir Maurice whispered, and Rumpelstiltskin shut his stinging eyes to the sounds of a grieving father, his fingers knotting at his back. He knew all too well the truth of a father’s sorrow. Sir Maurice wasn’t the best of men, nor was he even the smartest, but Rumpelstiltskin could not fault him for his adoration of his child. It was nature’s truest tell, the one lie that could never be played. “I should have never let her go with you,” he went on, his voice hardening. “To become the pawn of a beast.”

Rumpelstiltskin turned his face sharply, his glare black and his lip curling from his teeth, but where Maurice should look and fear, he only glared in return. The Dark One straightened, before nodding to himself, saying, “You have my word, my lord. I will bring your daughter home to you.” 

Clearly not what he was expecting to hear, Sir Maurice blanched, the color beginning to come back to his cheeks, his eyes. He dropped his handkerchief, about to take a halting step forward before thinking better of it.

“You will assemble your finest soldiers-” Rumpelstiltskin cast a glance about his feet at the men he’d turned to dust, snorting. “-to search the frontlands and all of Avonlea. Leave no house unturned, no inn, brothel, or fort unsearched. If you have to set the forest afire itself,” Rumpelstiltskin met the man’s eyes, narrowing his gaze. “It will be done.”

“I... understand,” the former knight nodded tentatively, frowning. “And you?”

Rumpelstiltskin paused, one boot hovering over the floor, staring straight ahead at the double oak doors. He cocked his head to the side, his eyes unseeing as he thought of bandits and pirates and witches and queens, of all the delicate throats he would sink his teeth into for harming one hair on Belle’s lovely little head. “I will bring your daughter home to you, and the bodies of those who would do her harm, as food for the hounds,” he swore with malicious relish, licking his lip. With a flourish of his arm, he threw the doors open, and growled. “If it’s the last thing I do.”


	5. Saltwater Sting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is where things get complicated.

Cold shards tingled up her back when her head cracked against stone, and a wave of nausea threw Belle over onto her side, emptying her stomach of seawater. The burn of salt stung her eyes and nose as she coughed, sure she would never be able to breathe again. Something hot and sticky dripped down her neck in a steady flow, and the harsh coppery scent made her heave again. Through the roar of blood in her ears, she was conscious of gentle hands on her back, her neck, her knees, and she tried to open her eyes before the darkness pulled her under once more.

Under blackness so deep, it was only the most terrible of pain that brought her back to the surface. Her bones felt like they’d been turned to glass, and her eyes were wrenched open when her leg was shattered. She tried to scream, but she couldn’t find the air for it, and cold, biting hands held her arms down when she felt another shrieking pain as her other leg was taken, too-as if an ogre had wrapped its fist about her knee and _squeezed_ until it was dust.

The passage of time between those moments her blurry vision yielded anything was slight, but Belle could hear voices, muffled as though behind drums, soft and deep and raspy voices that rose and fell all around her. The closest one was sweet, though, and when her bruised eyes rolled open, a dark figure was above her upside down. She could feel someone stroking her hair, but even such a gentle touch hurt.

Another shadow passed before her, then, and she felt fingers at her jaw, prying her mouth open before something hot was pulled up through her throat, and an overwhelming pressure crushed her chest. Then, Belle felt nothing at all.

For all the violence of the storm that had swallowed her and the ship’s crew whole, when Belle began to wake, it was a gentle sensation of becoming aware. She was too cold to feel anything, save for the bone dryness of her throat and the dull, throbbing ache at the base of her skull. Each breath hurt her ribs, which felt battered beneath the rise and fall of her chest, and her eyes stung as if she’d slept with sand in them. By her ear, she heard a splash of water, and she was able to turn her head and open her eyes.

Near darkness shadowed what appeared to be a large cavern, but there was a pool of crystal water that stretched out before her from the bank she laid upon, wet and shivering. Blinking hard against the pain behind her eyes, Belle let her vision adjust in the strange lighting, as the moonlight made the water glitter and spray shards of light along the cavernous walls. Beneath the surface, if she looked over the edge, she could see that the pool was lit by more than just moonlight, and the lagoon water was rippling with colors of amethyst, aquamarine, and emerald. Staring for so long, Belle was lost to the beauty of it, so much so that it took another closer splash to draw her attention.

“Are you awake?”

Not able to turn her head up towards the voice, Belle waited until she heard the sloshing of water nearby before ghostly white hands came into view, gripping the ledge of the shelf of stone where she lay. A moment later, a girl pulled herself up, huffing quietly as she wriggled to sit up beside her. Belle stared, disturbed, for she knew the slight young thing that perched by her hip, the pearly pink hue to her fins, the near translucent gauzy chemise that kept the girl decent. Her slick blonde hair was taken back in a heavy braid, but strands escaped to hang about her thin face, making her big blue eyes even rounder as she leaned over Belle, dripping saltwater on her neck.

“You remember me,” the young mermaid gasped softly, her mouth lifting in a pretty smile of delight. “They all said you wouldn’t, but I knew you would.”

At Belle’s heavy silence, the girl hesitated, blinking long, pale lashes. “Are you in pain?”

Closing her eyes, Belle managed to tuck her head, nodding once. When she looked back up, the young girl had produced a burlap sack that was sopping wet, but the water was delightfully warm as it pooled on the cold stone, seeping beneath Belle’s skin. Glass bottles could be heard clinking in the bag until the mermaid produced one that was filled up to the cork stopper with a thick, dark green mixture. “I was told to give you this, that it would help you... mend.”

At her hesitation, Belle frowned, but before she could try to raise herself up, Seraphina uncorked the glass vial and leaned forward. Cupping the back of the brunette’s head, she put the bottle to her lips, and Belle was forced to swallow.

It mostly tasted of pungent plants, astringent alcohol, and something tartly sweet. _Licorice_ , Belle thought, coughing as she choked it down and trying not to retch all over the pretty creature helping her.

“Kyme makes medicines and potions. She has a whole collection of herbs that she’s able to keep dry here in the cove,” Seraphina chirped, stopping the bottle and putting it back in her rucksack. “I don’t have the patience for it, but Kyme has read every recipe and book of medicines that exists, or so they say. She was the wisest woman back where she came from.”

The medicine had wet Belle’s throat enough that she could cough up the words, “Where... is that... from?”

“Across the southern sea, from Agrabah,” Seraphina answered promptly, smiling wide like an excited child. “They wear hardly any clothes there, you know, all bright silks and jewels, and they speak more tongues than anywhere else in the world.”

Belle felt her lungs burn as her fit subsided, and she tried to breathe slow and deep, letting the mermaid chatter happily at her side while she waited for the pain to recede. And, slowly, it did. Blinking up at the pretty patterns of light reflected off the pool and onto the cavern walls, memory began to build itself around the cold and the numb that encased her, and as the pain diminished, her clarity of thought returned.

“There was a ship,” she whispered, turning her face up to Seraphina’s. The girl leaned down, her brow furrowing gently as she listened. “I was aboard a ship...and I jumped-”

“Yes,” Seraphina’s eyes dropped to her lap, and her thin white fingers played delicately over the pearly pink flush of her scales. “Yes, there was a ship. It’s at the bottom now-” Her eyes lit like the blue of a flame and she smiled. “I could show you. Would you like to see?”

“It sank?” Belle whispered, realizing she should have expected it and surprised how alarmed she was at being alive when she should have felt thankful, grateful. But she had not been alone on the ship, and as she gazed across the pool of water around the rest of the cavern, she knew she would be the only survivor she’d find.

Seraphina must have seen the confusion and questions in her eyes, and a shadow crossed her face. “I only saw you, beneath the wreckage. I knew you were no pirate,” she added quietly, biting her lip in a similar habit that Belle herself had. “I couldn’t just leave you.”

“And you saved my life,” Belle murmured quietly, a smile she did not feel lifting her cheeks just enough to show her good thanks to the young creature.

Seraphina’s eyes did widen then, round like tea saucers. The gentle dip of her throat lifted as she swallowed, and she licked her lips quickly. “N-No.”

Frowning, Belle wrinkled her brow.

“You were all blue,” Seraphina breathed, unblinking. Belle only then realized the poor girl was holding her hand, but she couldn’t feel it through the numb and the cold. By the looks of the whites of her knuckles, she was squeezing her hand for all she was worth, too. “You were blue, and I couldn’t...I didn’t know how...”

“Am I dead?” Belle whispered, raw panic clawing in her breast too fervently to even think about a heartbeat.

“No!” Seraphina let out a high yelp, her eyes widening even more if possible. “No, we sa-wait, don’t get up!”

But Belle had already rolled herself up onto her elbows, and took in the account of herself with a sinking dread. In place of her body, there, below the creamy whiteness of her hips and belly, tapered off a tail of shimmering pale gold scales that lay like a disposed ribbon against the dark, wet cavern floor. Staring in horror, Belle tried to reach forward towards the thing where her legs should have been and almost fell back, giving herself a hard knock, had Seraphina not caught her in time. “Don’t, you’ll hurt yourself,” the girl begged, but Belle was beyond reason, shoving herself back with the heels of her hands to sit up straight.

The scales themselves were small things, flinty and surprisingly hard like rock. Shivers began to grip her soon until her teeth were chattering and her hands were shaking, but she ignored the pleas of the mermaid-the _other_ mermaid.

Oh gods.

Her hand flew to her mouth, and she felt her eyes sting so badly a sharp pain twitched between her eyes, behind her nose. “What’s happened to me-” Belle whimpered into her palm, her other hand coming to rest against her forehead.

“Don’t cry, it’ll only make it worse,” Seraphina whimpered, sounding just as upset as Belle was. Sense of thought and reason flew, and Belle wanted nothing more but to get up and run. Realizing she couldn’t sent her into a blind torrent of anxiety that had her gasping for air and trying her best to rein in tears she had not shed so ardently since she was a girl on her father’s knee.

Out of everything that had been done, Belle had ground her heels into the fact that she could decide her own fate. She made the deal with Rumpelstiltskin, she secured her people’s safety, she chose to take the chance to love a beast, and she walked away from him rather than stay and deface her pride. She had taken care of herself for these past weeks, and she had been the one to help and better those she’d met. Belle had tasted her freedom, she’d worked it and shaped it like a new leather book bag until it carried her with purpose, but to have lost that was to see all her newfound courage disappear.

It was long, severe moments of suffocating silence before Belle could control her sobs, her hand smothering her mouth and nose to quiet her noises as she stared, stared, stared at where her legs and feet should have been. Soon, her sobs quelled into tremulous sniffling, and her muscles cried as she leaned back against the rock wall, watching as she shifted how her tail and fins moved as dead weight.

“You did this to me?” Belle asked in a hollow voice, not recognizing the sound to be her own. She looked up at the younger mermaid, who watched her with fear and trepidation. After a moment, the girl shook her head, and Belle swallowed thickly, nodding. She didn’t think little Seraphina could have been the one; Belle knew the look of those who had magic (for it could only be magic). It was a powerful weight that carried them, like an invisible armor that gave them a confidence to be unfeeling above the rest.

The next question stilled on the tip of her tongue. If Seraphina knew the one who’d done this to her, perhaps they could go and beg the witch or wizard to change her back. For one moment of deep set fear that nearly stopped her heart, Belle thought of calling for Rumpelstiltskin.

She _could_.

He would change her back, he would. She knew it, and she knew he would relish in exacting another price from her for it, to see her squirm, so weak and having gotten herself into such a mess. Belle swallowed thickly, frowning at her own thoughts. He would change her back though. Even if it toppled her pride, what little she had left, he would help her. No matter what he said, she knew he loved her. He detested his own form so very much, she didn’t think he would let her suffer in such a similar state, too, especially when it was against her will.

But would he even answer her call of his name?

The ache in her head swelled to a throb, and Belle put her hand to her forehead, grimacing. “I’m going to be sick.”

“Come into the water,” Seraphina said, her voice softened to almost a whisper. When Belle let her hand drop, the girl’s eyes fell to the rocky shelf she sat on. Her voice was small when she said softly, “It helps.”

The idea felt traitorous, as if indulging the very crime that had been committed against her, but her muscles were so incredibly sore, bone deep, and her head felt like a cracked egg that was about to leak. Shifting, Belle maneuvered herself to the edge as much as she could, frowning at her own tail, which she had to drag.

Seraphina reached over, and Belle froze when she touched her tail fins. Against the dark rock, they looked like wet, wrinkled translucent fabric, but it startled her to feel someone touch them. It was... it was a delicate sensation, like a chaste kiss to the back of the neck, or someone stroking the flesh between her thumb and forefinger. It was odd, perplexing, but pleasurable in a way. Seraphina moved and let Belle’s fins fall gently into the pool.

Coming unwrinkled, her fins shone faintly in the water, and Belle saw them under the light of the moon. From the base of her tail to the tip of her fin, it was almost as long as her arm, and soft gold webbing caught the light, flowing like a banner beneath the surface. Wrinkling her brow, Belle wondered how she was supposed to... use them.

“It’s alright,” Seraphina whispered, and Belle looked up to find the girl watching her fondly, a small smile playing on her lips but still wary, waiting for Belle to cry again. Sitting so close, again, Belle could see the mermaid’s own visage. She was indeed little, even her own tail was shorter than Belle’s but vastly different. Her scales were so thin they almost blended together, a gentle pink that was almost white, and frilly fins edged her hips down the length of her tail like ruffles, and where Belle’s fin was wide and flowing, Seraphina’s was thinner, like a ribbon trailing in the water beside her own.

“What is?” Belle asked, her voice a whisper in the cavern.

“To like it.”

“It... it feels nice. The water,” Belle said, taking a moment to enjoy the pretty way her scales- _gods_ , her _scales_ -glowed underneath the soft reflecting light. Now that she could see them, she was surprised by how extremely delicate they looked. The palest of golds that disappeared beneath her belly to the fleshy softness of her skin. Her fingers tapped along her hips where the scales softened, feeling like she was looking at herself from outside her own body.

“Can you move it yet?”

Belle tilted her head in thought, looking down at her otherwise limp fins in the water. She couldn’t move it, but her tail... if she concentrated, she found she could. Slowly at first, she tried out those new muscles, wonderstruck. The movement stemmed from where her knees once had been, and though the actions tired her quickly and seemed altogether clumsy, Seraphina clapped her hands in delight. “You’re so strong,” the girl wondered, looking at her with wide blue eyes. “I could hardly move my first time out of water."

“Really?”

“It’s different... being up here,” the girl said, wrinkling her nose. “Scents and tastes... everything is different. It’s not right.”

Belle remained quiet, looking down at the water. It did feel nice to have her fin in the pool. Perhaps... a little more would feel good, too.

“Will you help me?” Belle asked, hating how her voice broke.

Seraphina nodded, grappling for anything Belle offered her, and she held out her hands. Taking them, Belle scooted to the very edge and allowed gravity to do the rest, tipping over before falling into the pool.

It was indescribable, a rebirth. The water slid over her skin, up the back of her neck, through her hair, in her eyes and mouth and nose, and Belle felt whole. Sinking beneath the surface, nature and instinct worked together and she felt the thrumming of the gills behind her ears tickling her. It was only a moment or two before she came to sit on the bed of the cavern pool, but she could have stayed suspended by water and salt for her whole life.

It was then, when she came to sit abruptly against the rock, that she realized the ache of her head, the numbness of her limbs, the dull pain slowly began to fade. She was no longer cold-no, she hardly felt any discomfort-and for the briefest of moments, Belle forgot her pain. There was only the water washing over her. Opening her eyes, she winced at her rather murky surroundings until her eyes began to adjust.

At the bottom of the pool, there was a flourishing collection of plant life in an array of colors Belle had never seen. Purples, blues, and greens, and the flowers seemed to glow beneath the light of the moon, swaying with the gentle currents and reaching out with their tentacle fingers. Their touch was slightly stinging against her tail, but it was so pleasant that for a moment, Belle was compelled to reach out with her fingers and touch them.

Before she could touch one of small, dark blue bulbs with the filmy light blue petals, two white hands took her own, and she looked up to see Seraphina floating just above her, smiling. Her blonde hair was lifted and nearly white against the light of the moon, making her look even paler, her eyes even bluer.

Taking her hands, Seraphina pulled her up and led her in an easy glide through the water.

Belle let herself be pulled, eyes wide as she felt the current embrace her. For one terrifying moment, she was frightened that she wouldn’t know how to adapt, but instinct took hold of those muscles and bones once more. With the current bending her body in a gentle undulation, Belle pushed and rolled with her tail.

Seraphina nodded in answer. Where she’d seemed so limp and small and weak above the surface, she was brilliant and beautiful beneath, shining as she led Belle backwards. As they came to the edge of the mouth of the cavern, Seraphina let go of her hands and turned, swimming out into the dark waters of the ocean.

Belle floated gently to a stop, staring out at the rising darkness of the deep. Moonlight cut through in glassy shards, illuminating Seraphina’s pretty pink tail, but soon she was just a blur against the waves, and Belle was alone at the mouth of the cavern, looking out into the darkness.

Considering her past, the darkness of war and monsters, she had never been given the unknown before. There had never been a time she’d been offered discovery, exploration, adventure, and now it was at the tips of her fingers, if only she could be brave enough to reach out and touch it. It was unsafe and dangerous, but looking out into that murky darkness, Belle could only hear the voices of her past, those who had discouraged and berated her before she’d even been given a chance.

_“You foolish, gullible girl!”_

Blinking in the inky black water, Belle tilted her chin down and narrowed her eyes in realization that there was no voice there, then, to judge her. Trilling her gills in what would have been the deepest of breaths, she let go of the rock and, reaching out, touched the abyss for her own.

**Author's Note:**

> The song 'Gently as She Goes' is composed by Alan Silvestri.
> 
> Please see the beautiful artwork by [Valoscope](http://www.valoscope.tumblr.com) including the [Pockets Full of Stones title page](http://valoscope.deviantart.com/art/Pockets-Full-of-Stones-343882708) (spoilers for chapter five), [Belle Above the Garden](http://valoscope.deviantart.com/art/Belle-Above-the-Garden-352866356) (spoilers for chapter five), and [Sirens in the Woods](http://valoscope.deviantart.com/art/Sirens-in-the-Woods-324527004)!


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